As he began rummaging through his duffel, it was all too evident that the bag had been thoroughly searched in his absence. He kept his irritation in check, and with a nonchalant air began pulling out his clothes and laying them on the bed. His kukri lay sheathed in the deepest recesses of the duffel, but there was no sign of his pistol. He breathed a silent curse then repacked it, leaving out a fresh shirt and a rumpled sport coat, which he donned with exaggerated slowness. On the way out of the cabin he took a second look at himself in the mirror. What he saw nearly made him laugh aloud. He would be attending dinner at Severin's table looking like a skid row bum. The XO sniffed disdainfully, calling Kismet an uncivilized pig under his breath, then led the way to the officer's mess.
Irene was already seated at Severin's table, idly conversing with the captain. Severin rose to greet him then gestured for him to sit. The executive officer took a seat directly opposite Irene, leaving only one vacant setting, at the captain's left. As Kismet lowered himself into the heavy wooden chair, he was painfully conscious of the fact that the only person at the table he would be unable to see was Irene. This too, he knew, was no coincidence.
Two seamen dressed as waiters marched out of the galley. When they finished their ministrations, each guest at the table had before them a bowl of sour-milk okroshka and a crystal cordial snifter that was more than half-full of a clear liquid. Curious, Kismet lifted the glass and passed it under his nose. There was no smell, but a faint vapor stung his nostrils; the beverage was not water.
Severin took up his own glass and inclined it toward Kismet. "Are you familiar with the custom of the toast? Of course, you must be. I will begin. We drink to your impending marriage to the beautiful Irina Petrovna Chereneyeva." He quickly repeated the toast in Russian, for the benefit of his officers, then brought the snifter to his lips.
With one accord the officers raised their glasses and drained them. Kismet tilted his in the direction of the other guests then took a sip. The vodka burned cool on his tongue, leaving a frigid trail from the back of his throat all the way down his esophagus.
One of the officers pointed at Kismet and made a remark about his sincerity. Before he could pretend to have not understood, Severin began chiding him. "Ah, Nikolai. You barely tasted the vodka. Could it be that you are not looking forward to taking Irina as your bride?"
Kismet winced. "Forgive me. I guess I didn't understand the custom." He lifted the snifter a second time and poured its contents into his mouth. His stomach burned, as though he had swallowed a flaming snowball, and he immediately felt the warmth of the alcohol spreading to his extremities. The overall sensation was not entirely unpleasant. Before his glass was back on the table, the waiter was already decanting a second round.
"Tell me, Mr. Kismet. How did you meet your future bride?"
"I, ah—" Suddenly, Kismet drew a blank. It was as if the part of his brain where he stored their fictitious romance had been burned away by the liquor. He wasn't a lightweight by any means, but it had been several hours since he'd last eaten and there was nothing in his stomach to buffer the alcohol. "At work," he finally blurted.
"I see. An office romance. She was your subordinate…what's the word? Your intern?"
"No," countered Kismet, his manner measured and deliberate. He could hear his own voice and knew that his speech was unimpaired, but his body felt detached, and he was virtually certain that his words would be slurred and unintelligible. "Irene was working with the museum staff on a program for her students. We met in the lunchroom one day when she was visiting."
When not on the run from a gang of kidnappers, Irene Kerns spent her days teaching English to Russian immigrant children in Brighton Beach. The fabrication they had agreed upon seemed to adequately fit the facts without being needlessly complicated, but now as Kismet tried to put it into words, he found himself cringing at its implausibility.
"Forgive my error. When was it that you became romantically involved with each other?"
Kismet suspected Irene had already undergone an extensive, if polite interrogation and knew Severin would be comparing his answers with hers, hungry for telltale inconsistencies. He forced himself to relax, drawing several deep breaths in an effort to counteract the numbing effects of the liquor, and after a few seconds launched into the tale of his whirlwind romance with Irene Kerns.
The soup bowls were cleared away, and the waiters began shuttling out the main course; two platters of zharkoye roasted meat, carved into thin slices. It was blood red at the center and dripping with juices. The platters were placed on the table and the officers did not hesitate to load their plates with heaping portions. Kismet waited for his turn with the fork then speared two slabs of the meat. He noted that no one had begun eating, and waited silently for the signal to begin.
"We do not usually eat so well," Severin explained with mock humility. "But for guests, we hold back nothing. Irina, let us have your toast."
Kismet leaned forward slightly, and caught a glimpse of Irene as she reached for her glass. "To good food."
Severin repeated the toast in Russian, and all of the snifters were raised and emptied. Kismet watched as Irene tipped her head back, and then with a frown drank his own portion.
As another measure of strong spirits flowed into his bloodstream, Kismet had little doubt that Severin was trying to use the vodka to loosen his tongue. He knew, or at least had a rough idea, what his own tolerances were with respect to alcohol. But could Irene hold her liquor? He decided not to take that chance.
As he lowered his glass to the table, his let his elbow fall squarely in the middle of his plate. "Oops," he drawled. He tried to extract his arm, but only succeeded in knocking the glass over, and smearing gravy all over the tablecloth. "Looks like I've had a little too much to drink." His words were slow and sloppy, and as he spoke, he waved his hands in a series of uncoordinated gestures.
"Nekulturny," remarked one of the officers. Uncultured.
Severin affected a distasteful expression. "I wasn't aware that you Americans were such poor drinkers."
Kismet grinned foolishly. "Guess I'm a little tipsy. Don't mind me. Go on with your dinner."
The officers regarded Kismet as though he were a leper, but followed the lead of their captain and began eating. Kismet toyed with his food, occasionally fumbling his utensils to perpetuate his drunken act. Severin, however, did not relent in his search for answers. With Kismet seemingly out of the conversation, he focused his inquiries exclusively toward Irene.
"How did your father die?"
"I'd rather not speak of it," she mumbled. The liquor was clearly affecting her, but she seemed to retain a shred of good judgment.
"I understand. But it is important that I know the facts. Petr Ilyich had many enemies. Some might even wish to avenge themselves upon his heir. What will I tell them when they learn that his daughter sat at my table?"
"It was an accident. There was a fire."
Severin nodded slowly. "How sad for you." He waited silently, as if expecting her to reveal more, but Irene said nothing. The quiet hung in the air above the table like a pall, dissipating only when the waiters cleared away the platters.
Kismet contemplated yet another portion of vodka waiting in his glass as dessert-bliny topped with sour cream and honey-was served. The liquor was indeed potent. His intoxication was now no longer an act, but rather a measured relaxing of his usual self-control. Following yet another toast, he was all too aware of the difficulty he was having in discerning the difference.